The Crooner And His Widow

Crooner Bong Crisby went widdershins round the kirk. Three times he did it, in fog, mist, and murk. He had not read his M R James, or so his weeping widow claims. He vanished off the earth and has no tomb. I hear his golden crooning in my living room. It issues from the walls, all day and all night, crooning, pleading for his widow’s mite.

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